I’m gonna miss those guys…

I’m really going to miss those guys. Seriously. I won’t miss everyone constantly complaining about them, but the men in black and white stripes will be missed. At least by me. I can proudly say that. The replacement refs spiced up football. For the better. They got people laughing, crying, yelling – all good emotions that football lacks. Football has sadly morphed into a game of boring stats and illuminated laptops. These officiating gunslingers made the product a bit more entertaining. They were winging it. Learning as they went along. I liked not knowing where they were going. You had to stay with them. Listen hard, concentrate and they rewarded you every time.

What a fun ride it was. In a game that cherishes order, I liked seeing a little chaos. Nothing better than watching a game break down from the inside. Best to sit back and enjoy the show. It’s why for the life of me I couldn’t fathom boycotting the games. They were all great fun.

Everyone likes to officiate at home by calling pass interference and holding penalties from the sunken seat cushions of our apartments. With these champs, playing it fast and loose, there was no telling where they’d go. They were full of surprises. Mysteries at each corner. Not like the robotic pros who care little about drama.

I hope the real refs aren’t cheered tonight. Some have written that they deserve a standing ovation for simply returning to work. I hope they are booed to tears. When the so-called pros botch an easy call early in the first quarter chants of “bring them back” should spread across the stadium.

It will tickle me to hear spineless announcers go back to the days of holding their tongues on poor officiating. The replacements reinvigorated broadcasters, allowing them to criticize without the threat of reprisal. Once the pros are back, I doubt any will have the onions to acknowledge referee incompetence.

Still, none of that really matters to me. I just like football. I don’t care who the refs are. The rules are ridiculously complicated. The game is what interests me. The ball. Throws and catches and sometimes, even big time kicks. That’s why we watch, isn’t it? Bad calls are as much a part of sports as good calls. The replacement refs were good for the little guy – the underdog in all of us. They tried to fit in with the big boys. So what if it didn’t go smoothly.

The genuine refs are not the NFL’s custodians, set out to preserve the game’s integrity. The game has no integrity. They are the game’s only janitors. Meant to clean up after the athletes. Take out the trash the owners left behind. The real referees should abide by a single rule – stay out of the way. The game is not about you. If you wanted to be an arbiter of things that actually matter, try law school. Until then, toss your silly little flags and enjoy the world’s greatest part-time gig.

You see, the replacement refs didn’t make the story about them. The players and coaches did that. The pundits and experts did that. And we the fans did it too. All groups bitching about the spot of the ball or any obscure rule they could find. We love getting outraged about things that do not matter – replacement referees – and ignoring things that do – rampant concussions and early onset dementia in retired players. This was no different. Too bad you can’t throw flags to penalize self-righteousness.

It’s just football. Only now, in a sad irony, the replacement refs have been replaced. Not much will change though. You can count on that. So tonight, pour one out for the little guy. Shed a tear for the blue-collar ref who doesn’t quite understand simultaneous possession. We must never forget these legends. They were thrown into an unenviable position of great conflict, but ended up transcending the game.

Let’s see Ed Hochuli do that.

Everything is funny or nothing is – so what’s it gonna be?

Daniel Tosh made a joke about rape. Or whatever. He got into it with a heckler. Now, as has become the unfortunate norm, the Internet is ablaze with outrage over what is funny and what isn’t. What’s off limits and what’s not? Jesus. People need to relax. Those who say “it’s not funny” or “Daniel Tosh isn’t funny” are missing the point entirely. He should have the freedom to say whatever he wants. Why? Because I want the freedom to do so. And you should too. How about this? I hate people who wear socks in shower sandals. Is that funny? Maybe? Possibly? Who cares? But I should be able to say it. Case fucking closed. This goes for Michael Richards, Tracy Morgan and Daniel Tosh. No one says you have to like what they say, just that they have the right to say it.

Here’s the deal. A comedy show isn’t an interactive experience. It’s not the Q&A part of a lecture at the 92nd Street Y. It is a performance and you’re supposed to listen and shut your trap. Thing get said, feelings get hurt – but I’m always intrigued by material that is “over the line.”

Look, this girl got humiliated in front of an audience. I suppose that’s what is supposed to happen after heckling. After you disrupt a comedy show. She wasn’t the only paying customer. And she did not get raped. Just because sexual assault is a crime does not mean you can’t make a joke about it. If you laugh, does it mean you’re in league with rapists – sympathetic to their cause? Of course not. Either it’s funny or it’s not. Move on.

Guess we can’t make jokes about slavery because black people were slaves. I suppose we can’t make Holocaust cracks because of the whole 6 million Jews actually getting killed thing. I suppose murder is out because people actually get murdered. Well then, car accidents can’t be touched on, cause those cause real pain. 9/11? That’s out. Too many deaths. No way anyone should mention cancer. That hurts people too. Let’s not joke about anything that would make anyone uncomfortable. What about the Armenian Genocide? Indian Casinos are funny but Indian massacres are not. Says who? What’s funny, then? Nothing?

That can’t be right.

Lewis Black made a joke once about going insane and dying of a brain aneurysm. I guess that should offend me. You know, since my father died of a brain aneurysm. But guess what? It doesn’t. Because the fucking joke is not about me and I’m not so self-involved to think it is.

Best to keep comedy empowering and positive. Think Sesame Street without the laughs.

This is all insane. It’s language policing plain and simple. We all have different tastes. We all have different lines. Humor is at times uncomfortable. At it’s best, you laugh because you feel like you shouldn’t be laughing.

All of this talk reminds me of the great Meat Loaf. His song where he says he’ll do anything for love but he won’t do that. People believe in free speech but not when it comes to rape jokes. So let’s set the record straight. Meat Loaf will not do anything for love and you do not believe in free speech.

Maybe it’s time we concentrated on actual rapists. Oh wait. We do. I believe a convicted one is bringing his show to Broadway.

‘Cause that makes sense.

Levon Helm: 1940-2012

People die all the time. When people you know die, it’s obvious why you care, why you’re sad – but when it’s a public figure, it’s confusing. Why do I care at all?

With Levon Helm, I’m not confused. I know why. It was that voice – that incomparable voice. The genuine spirit that exploded from every note. Levon Helm did not simply sing for America. He sang as her.

That last sentence may sound absurd. But if you’ve ever listened to the Band, even in passing, you’ll get it. You’ll understand what made him different. So he didn’t croon like Sinatra, wear spandex like Rod Stewart, molest microphone stands like Steven Tyler or screech like Axl Rose– but he didn’t have to. He just told the story as only he could – in his own voice.

For everyone.

RIP.

On a side note. There has to be a better way to acknowledge the poignancy of a Facebook post about a man’s death than by clicking the “like button.” C’mon Zuckerberg, we’re all expecting big things from you, buddy.

The Flip Phone is No More

His last day on this planet was a good one. Dare I say a beautiful one.

The phone had been through a lot. Falls, drops and spills. Yankee losses and Jet defeats. Carelessness and clumsiness. Through it all, it worked. As the intelligent phones of my friends were dying all around me, like the cockroach after the Nuclear holocaust, my phone survived. Lived on to fight another day.

I rationalized and excused his faults. When the battery died after a 15 minute conversation, I chalked it up to the weather. “He doesn’t like the cold.” If it froze or reached capacity after 30 text messages I deemed it a blessing in disguise. No need to keep the messages anyway. Purging is a good thing. At least that’s what I told myself. Despite it all, I never felt the need to check my email or stare down at my phone during conversations. It was nice to get away and only be bound by the address book in my phone and not the whole of the internet.

That all changed three weeks ago. A few friends and I drove out to Robert Moses State Park in Long Island. The glorious Fire Island Lighthouse stood tall. It was a gorgeous morning in the high 40s. The water looked so nice that I had the irrational desire to go swimming even though it meant certain death. I mean, how often do you see an empty beach on a bright sunny day? Sure, it was a bit cold, but that’s not a big deal. I’m only talking about a brief dip.

Somewhere during that day my phone began to roam. He started losing it. Fading quickly. Suddenly, service was out. I couldn’t call or text or do anything. Perhaps the beauty of Fire Island was enough to end it. He was nearly 4 and in phone years that’s time to start collecting social security. No spring chicken is all I’m saying.

I switched the battery in and out. In and out. Then a white screen. Then nothing. And like that, he was gone. He’d had a good run and that’s all any of us, human or phone, can ask for.

I have a smart phone now but I still long for the quiet days of the flip when a phone just a phone. It was used to call and nothing more. I’ll mourn that era even if I’m the only one.

Final Thoughts on the Super Bowl

I know it’s not the same. I didn’t have a rooting interest in Super Bowl this year. But that doesn’t matter. I’ve never had a rooting interest in Super Bowl. But this year was different. I felt such disdain for both teams. I’d pull for a stale mate, but after playing the ineffectual game of T-Ball as a child I vowed to never be a part of a “tie” – and I never will.

You see, I’m a Jets fan. I hate the Giants. They have our stadium and rightfully own the city. Let’s pretend for a second that both teams do not actually play in New Jersey – which of course they do – and imagine they are New York City’s football team. They treat the Jets like second-class citizens, which of course we are. I’ll be the first to admit – Jets fans are degenerates.

In fact, Mario Cuomo’s most honorable act as a mayor was rooting for the Buffalo Bills, since they are the only football team that actually plays in New York State. But this season was worse. The Giants effectively ended the Jets season in a head to head matchup. Thankfully I was on shore leave – at the Book of Mormon with my mother. Therefore, I have no recollection of the game and never will. And that’s a good thing.

Still, it wasn’t hard to pick an allegiance for the game. Because as much as I detest the New York Giants, the New England Patriots – to me – represent all that is evil. On levels both very deep and quite superficial. I don’t appreciate the name – the Patriots. New England isn’t a state; it’s a nebulous region with shifting boundaries. They get Maine, Vermont and the crazed state of New Hampshire. Rhode Island gets throw in there and of course part of the schizophrenic state of Connecticut. I say take ‘em. But who can forget Massachusetts? As a Yankee fan I am forced to hate all things related to Boston. The city is nice enough but I feel its contributions are severely lacking over the last 200 years. I’ll thank them for John Adams the Tea Party (the one in 1773) but that’s it.

I watched the game. You can’t resist. It’s part of Americana and I’m a sucker for that shit. I enjoyed myself. Surviving the game the only way I knew how – by making sarcastic comments about every commercial and nitpicking the announcers. It helped – but it by no means eliminated how I felt.

So the Giants won the super bowl. I bet that’s nice for their fans and even some non-fans caught up in the fervor that surrounds any team as they make a final playoff push. But once the game ended, I felt a void. A void for my team and fury that for the second time in four years I had to sit down and watch two teams I hate duke it out for the supremacy of the sport.

I’m just glad it’s over. Baseball season can’t come fast enough.

The Beauty of Unfriending

I rid myself of over 100 facebook friends. It was a great experience. Because, like I said, they were only facebook friends. Not real friends or good friends. They were acquaintances I met during Orientation Week at college. People who noticed me on the subway or some girl I was into until I realized she had A) a boyfriend B) was lesbian or eventually C) realized she hated me.

So long to all.

If you dated an actual friend of mine.

See ya.

If we used to be involved sexually or romantically.

Adios.

I still have 150. Which is still way more than my actual friends. It should be around 30. But right now I’m satisfied with what I came up with. I used the test that many newscasters speak of during each presidential election: would I have a beer with the person in question? For many the answer was a resounding “no.”

It was carthartic without being violent or antagnostic. And I don’t care, because no one I got rid of is actually friends with me. I’ve accumulated people that I met once, twice and don’t think about. It was time for them to go. Long long overdue.

Pregaming: What happened to the actual game?

I got invited to a girl’s apartment in early December for a “pregame” of sorts. I didn’t go –not because of any personal reservation I hold against her.

The reason I didn’t attend and opted instead to meet her at the bar for the party is out of silent protest of the term “pregame.” What the fuck is this about? It’s ridiculous. There was a time, not that long ago, that this term meant nothing. It meant, you meet your friends at their apartment before going out together. But that act alone was not considered some faux event before the actual event. Why not make that the party? On second thought, I’d like to have pre-sex with her before we actually have sex. It’s where we sit around naked just talking about fucking but not fucking until 3 hours later at a different locale.

Pregames speak to our inexplicable need make everything in our lives important. They aren’t The act of meeting up is not. Just be there so we can play the game already.